Through the Looking Glass
by Cape Twirl of Doom
Summary: After a magnificent gala performance, Christine obliges Erik with a 'private rendition'.


**"Through the Looking Glass"** By**Cape****Twirl**** of Doom** _Author Insert: I'm leaving on a jet plane, I don't know when I'll be back again... actually tomorrow I take off for __Scotland__. Graduation trip with my mum. So when I get back on the 16th I'd best find loads of reviews crowding my inbox:)_

_Whether this is based on the novel, play or film version, your guess is as good as mine. See bio for general disclaimer. _

_"Through the Looking Glass" is subject to re-writing at any time. Please leave your e-mail address or contact me at if you would like to be notified of any changes. _

Dedicated to Finn... you suck.

* * *

Christine was not normally so foul tempered after a good performance as she was tonight, especially after one as magnificent as this. Nor was she in general given to fits or emotional whims. So the amount of hostility she displayed after the curtains had barely closed perplexed many a stage hand and theatre tart that quickly stepped out of her way. She was irritated tonight. The idea that it stemmed from an unjust provocation seemed to be universally acknowledged and sustained by the gods that their little cherub was at no instance anywhere at fault and in all rights entitled to fume. However, the exact cause of her irateness, for the moment, had escaped Christine's recollection – she was too irritated. And no one wanted to remind her.

Applause, applause, all around her. Deafening, mind numbing, it put thunder to shame the way it pounded and pulsed in Christine's temples until she thought she was walking on her head. It did absolutely nothing to quell her temper so she screamed. She thought she screamed. It was very difficult to discern particular sounds at that moment so she opened her eyes, saw her arms flailing wildly above her head, and deduced that she must be doing it.

Christine was too irritated to acknowledge any other form of emotion like embarrassment when she saw several of her "former" fellow dancers/chorus girls/sluts with theatre experience around her, watching her fit withed raised eyebrows. But she did lower her arms. They felt little concern for what they perceived as simply the first in what was sure to be a long line of the newly discovered diva's temper tantrums, and so merely whispered amongst themselves.

_"At least she's not as loud as Carlotta was."_

With a withering glare Christinestomped away. She briefly considered going down to the chapel as was her usual routine and ask God to cut off the audiences' hands, but thought better of it when she remembered Meg knew of her post-gala seclusion and was most likely chirping around down there looking to congratulate her. Christine was afraid she wouldn't be able to stomach it especially after _everyone_ under the opera house roof had seemed to set aside all worldly concerns and make it their personal mission in life to congratulate her.

She knew she would later feel guilty for being so tart with her pair of deluded drunk managers. Galas like this one filled their heads with delusions of grandeur and when they foolishly attempted to avert her course to her dressing room and usher her towards the reception chamber crowded with an ocean of fans and admirers waiting impatiently to crush her beneath their torrents of praise and compliments, she drew her vorporial sword and cut them to the quick – but mostly because they were half drunk and tried to grope her.

A moment later Raoul caught her by the arm, but only after having chased her down the hallway, calling to her while she obstinately ignored his treaties and walked faster. He did eventually overtake her. Christine stood obdurately silent as the young, whimpering viscount vainly kneeled and begged her to dine with him – again. She refused to meet his imploring eyes as she disengaged her hands from his grasp and wordlessly left him, gaining a few strides distant before she received the distinct feeling she had made him cry.

Madam Giry, bless her bonnet, was the only sensible person Christine had encountered since stalking off stage before the second curtain call. She only took one look at the hard lines of the young woman's face and flashing eyes before deciding that an approving nod at a distance of eight or so meters would, this time, be the most congenial method of congratulations. It had been a spectacular performance.

Christine, however, would not be consoled. If _he _saw her right now she knew that hewould reproach her for acting so temperamental just like he used to when she was a child and would fume and pout if she couldn't hit a note just right or when she forgot words in an aria he was teaching her. Christine exclaimed something rather obscene at this moment in both French and English, remembering the line she had tripped over in the second scene of that nights opera "_Cerquet de Guspei_", that, in her opinion, was a bloody stupid inconsequential line of absolutely no importance whatsoever anywhere in the entire act!

Not to say that it wasn't a crowning achievement. Without a doubt the greatest opera to ever originate from the _Opera Populaire_. It relates the story of a forbidden love affair between a beautiful Persian princess who betrays her lover, a lowly palace guard, by enthusiastically agreeing to her father's wishes and marrying a wealthy raja. Distraught with rage and jealousy the guard murders the raja and exposes the princess's and his tawdry relationship.

Understandably enraged, the king throws his disgraced daughter into the streets to live as a beggar and a vagabond and in turn sentences the palace guard to death. The princess strives to survive in her newly acquired unfortunate circumstance by becoming a whore and steeling much of what she needs to survive. After a few perilous encounters her great beauty and charm catches the eye of a traveling prince and is inducted into his harem. But after being sorely mistreated by him one night, she runs away and is later found half starved to death on the road by a band of roaming gypsies... of whom her former lover, the palace guard, who escaped execution, was also found by and is now the leader of.

The princess, clothed in filthy rags, cold, and hungry, begs at his feet for forgiveness, but is rejected and returned to her father... who by now has all but forgotten the whole affair, rewards the gypsy leader, and is simply joyful at the prospect of finding another rich raja to marry another of his daughters to.

All in all it was not a happy ending. It took the audience a full minute to realize it was over. But when they finally did the chandelier shook precariously with the applause. Yes, that same applause that made thunder go stand in a corner and wear a dunce cap. It was truly a stupendous performance.

Except for that pointless, cursed line that Christine never would have missed if she hadn't been staring into the tenebrous depths of Box 5 searching for _his _silhouette. He certainly left no room for _un_certainty as to his intentions for Box 5, demanding for it to remain always unoccupied. Bit it seemed as if he had banned light itself from entering its interior causing Christine to wonder if he had ever even come to watch her perform. He _heard_ her, which was for certain by his praise and/or critiquing, but she was beginning to doubt if he had ever _seen_ her on stage.

Fortunately no one ever understands half of what is sung in an opera so no particular notice was taken when she stammered and merely hummed along for a few bars. _Un_fortunately _he _was the one who wrote it and would notice. Christine bristled when she thought of the probability that he'd tease her about it for a while... until it stopped being funny. And Erik was a man of so few pleasures that that was likely to take longer than Christine felt she could tolerate. If it grew too unbearable to cope with she could probably re-direct his attention if she dared to disobey his implicit instructions and concede to Raoul's invitations. It was relatively unlikely that Erik would inflict any _permanent _harm on the young viscount, the boys' family was, after all, investing in _his _opera house. He would merely chide her for behaving so childishly and the next time she saw Raoul (who was hopefully well enough to understand her) she'd simply have to explain that she'd suffered from a minor stroke, or something of the nature... maybe it would be better if he wasn't able to understand. But at least her 'mishap' would be forgotten. Erik would go back to his dungeons singing about unrequited love, Christine would remain irritated with him until the planets aligned, Raoul would continue his pathetic imploring every night, in general the order of the universe would be restored. Christine couldn't recall a more wretched evening in all her life.

* * *

As he stood hidden behind the mirror in what was now _officially_ **Miss Daae's** dressing room, Erik mused on what a perfectly vertical line Christine's lips were drawn into. Those lips that when parted in a sigh or a song could seduce all of Paris and parts of Madrid. His tongue slid eagerly around his mouth begging to be given the task of coaxing them apart. But it was, as the slam of the door indicated as, an all together hopeless endeavor.

Why was she so upset? _She _had been the one, after all, to ruin _his _opera by somehow overlooking one simple, though he would admit somewhat useless, line. He flattered himself with the thought that he had played some part in it.

Ever since he was a child and first came to reside in the belly of this opera house, Erik had had no choice but to invent his own rules of what to consider 'right' and 'wrong'. He learned everything he knew about life, how to love, and what to do when someone tries to steal your true love away, from the operas he watched as he grew up. And this was his conclusion – It was 'right' to off a stage hand _if_ he was making a sufficient nuisance of himself and/or if his death would assist in making your point across about being taken seriously. _But_ it was 'wrong' to harm a woman, no matter how grating her voice was. Though, when the occasion called for it, you could drop a few strategically hung scenery tapestries on her head. It was 'right' to tell an impressionable, vulnerable, and grief stricken young girl that you're an angel... but _only_ if she started it first.

Erik looked down at the ground as Christine reappeared from behind the canvas pepere wearing nothing but her corset and lace negligee. He could fathom why he felt so ashamed to be here tonight seeing as he came her _every _night to watch his beautiful angel bask in the afterglow of her perfection on stage. But was it 'wrong' to spy on her (though all grown up) while she undressed in her boudoir even if you are solely responsible for her being there in the first place? No, as long as she never found out, it was entirely acceptable.

* * *

As Christine 'hastily' entered her dressing room, she opened her mouth prepared to pour out her soul to her angel of music. To confess her longings and beg him to comfort her distress, that is until her eyes fell scathingly upon the full length mirror standing so conspicuously at the far end of the room reflecting her image flawlessly and looking very innocent indeed. As if it were denying any rumors of concealing a secret passageway, or of whom it harbored from her view while simultaneously placing her on display.

She was irritated with _him _tonight. Why this night in particular? Because _all _the other nights it was exactly the same. Except somewhere in the middle of her performance, she realized something that the audience she entertained night after night already knew, that she was a woman, a woman that was no longer simply the pupil of a great teacher. Her voice had become the very essence of music. She was his masterpiece, his only mark on the world above. And yet he refused to reveal himself. But how did she know he was there, watching her through a one sided curtain? Simple... he was _always_ there. And that was where he stayed while night after night she was forced to fend off mobs of admirers determined to drown her with bouquets of flowers and various tokens of esteem, yet the only one she coveted came tied with a black satin ribbon. She had obediently severed her beguin with the never deterred Raoul for fear that jealousy may have caused Erik to do something altogether irrational, childish, and none to beneficial to Raoul's health. Not that _that _would have deterred him any. She had practically kissed goodbye to any chance of a suitable marriage to one of her more prominent suitors, all for him! She was famous, but few in society looked favorably on marriage with an opera singer.

For some reason, which Christine thought to be petty and immature, he desired to remain mysterious and aloof. Using the mirror to preserve his anonymity. She petted his delusions of spectralism, but in the mean time she was growing weary and impatient with his charade. Her voice had achieved limitless bounds because of his masterful tutelage. He wrote magnificent opera for her that had succeeded in raising her from obscurity to a state of celebrity throughout most of France and ongoing steadily as far as London. At yet _still _he did not come to her!

Christine thought for sure he must have his reasons, as she removed the stained and tattered costume from behind the shielding of the pepere and dressed in her lace nightgown, but she also couldn't help but feel indignant over his physical neglect. With an unceremonious display of temperament she 'huffed' onto the cushioned stool in front of her wardrobe, rested her chin in one hand and picking up a looking glass pouted at her reflection. She angled it to reflect the larger 'immovable' one, which consequently reflected her looking at it in the hand mirror. It couldn't be opened from the outside, but she knew he came into her dressing room during performances to leave his gift of 'approval'. And every night when she sat in front of her wardrobe, running her fingers over the satin tie, she could sense his presence, his sent that he left in the air washing over her. It was mortifying for Christine to discover that as simple a thing as the way he smelled had such an arousing affect on her. But that was all she had of him. That was all he _allowed _her to have while she willingly relinquished her mind, body and soul to do with them as he pleased. _"Poor Erik!"_ Christine remembered the words she had spoken mere weeks ago. Poor Erik indeed! Poor Christine!

She didn't remember much of that night. The one following her first gala exhibition. Somehow he'd placed her in a trance. His voice seemed to do that a lot to her. She would have slapped him for it too, had she not been in a trance. She remembered the mirror... oh yes, she remembered the _mirror_ after trying (and failing) to walk right through it the next day. And the mask that looked so adept on his face that was so beautiful she should wonder more why he wore it, but every time she recalled what he looked like no serious thoughts succeeded intruding in her fantasies... except one. Would it get in the way if he was _ever_ to kiss her? But for all she knew, he might have already. She wondered if she had done or said something that made him content to keep his distance and just watch. She felt like one of those cadged tigers at the circus that people go to see perform tricks, like jumping through flaming hoops.

Well, if he was here for a performance...

* * *

Captivated by the scene she created in the candlelight, Erik watched Christine poor water from the silver pitcher into a basin. He watched as she dipped a piece of cloth into the contents of the basin and wring it out between her hands. He watched as she proceeded to clear away the dirt smudges of stage makeup from her face. He watched each droplet of water that slid down her neck leaving moist trails he longed to follow disappearing underneath the top of her corset. And as he watched her run the cloth down over her chest Erik realized that there was no fabric in the world more annoying then lace. So light and insubstantial, sometimes a bit too insubstantial for the modest, yet obstructive... mockingly so.

He concluded that it would be 'right' to burn every lace garment in existence... impossible, but it must be done. And had Christine not at this moment relieved herself of this particular source of vexation, he would have certainly set forth immediately to rid the world of so taunting a commodity. But as she slid the negligee off her shoulders not one part of his body was paying any attention to his mind. Not even him.

* * *

Christine began, at first, only to move the cloth slower and more seductively over her face letting drops of water slide unchecked over her chin. She closed her eyes at the coolness as they slid further underneath her corset. After wiping all the smudges from her face she ran it down and over her chest, cleaning away what little makeup was applied to that area. Considering what approach to take next, her eyes caught sight of the red rose lying in front of her. Christine's smile was angelic and in no way devious, but her eyes, as she slid the nightgown down her shoulders, held all the wickedness of a wife plotting the demise of her negligent husband. She began humming a tune she faintly recognized as one sung to her while sleeping. And picking up the rose gently pressed it against her lips, inhaling its fragrence. She ran it over her cheek then down her neck as she had the cloth. Slowly she drug it down the length of her arm and bringing it back up over her chest repeated the movement over the other arm. She was aware she was showing off much more skin than would be deemed proper, even In France at that time, but the irrational part of her nature took control. Delicate maiden sensibilities be damned! If Erik was determined to deny hers and his own pleasure then she was more than willing to do what ever it took to make this experience as excruciatingly painful for him to watch as she could.

But if he wanted the bodice off as well, he'd have to do it himself.

* * *

Erik went rigid. His mind shattered into a hundred wicked thoughts. Christine's sweet, tantalizing voice beguiled his senses compromising his mental well-being. He suppressed a groan when she pressed a thorn from the slender stem of the rose against her flesh grazing the skin above her collar bone leaving a thread of pink flesh stark against the otherwise milky complexion. Her lips parted in a gasp. Perhaps he should intervene in this casual butchery of his nerves, but air eluded him and when Erik opened his mouth the only sound that he could conjure forth was an embarrassing 'squawk'. Lord in heaven and hell! He, the Phantom of the Opera, was being choked to death by a temerarious canary!

Oh, but if he wasn't a man possessed of an impeccable amount of self-control...

* * *

Christine rose from the stool and glided over to the door. She bolted it for her own peace mind that _nothing_ she did in this private display would ever bee seen by anyone but this specific audience. She was ready to receive him and she was going to make that perfectly clear... transparent even.

She sashayed over to a reclining couch sitting in a corner, but just as perfectly observable from the mirror as before. She tentatively perched on the edge of the velvet duvet covering, suddenly a little nervous. She didn't have much experience in the art of seduction – though Erik thought dismally that she was doing just fine. With one hand she pulled her auburn spools of hair around behind her neck and with the other, still holding onto the rose, delicately caressed her jaw line with the petals as it began its torturous exploration of her body. She relaxed and reclined back into the cushions of the duvet leaving one leg to hang over the edge of the couch. She continued moving the rose lower, over the outside of her thigh, adding the appropriate moans and gasps as it made its return trip back up to the inside of her thigh. In order to make _herself _think of this as more than just spiteful aggression, she tried imagined the soft petals were one of Erik's hands caressing her flesh. But, unfortunately, in her mind it was always gloved. Not even her desperate imagination could remove it. And she hated Erik for that.

* * *

Erik was audibly gasping for breath by now and pulling furiously to loosen the lace at his collar. This was not a lesson _he _had taught her! Even the 'click' of the door lock sounded to him sensuously drawn out. It felt like she was performing some sort of demon exorcism on his poor soul. He would have gladly died at this moment, but feared to find _this moment _as his eternal punishment. Pleasure it was not.

Inside Christine's boudoir laid heaven. So tantalizing and inviting. But this glass that barred him from bliss was a celestial angel with a drawn fiery sword, placed there to protect God's most precious cherub from his damning touch. Forced to stand and watch in purgatory or retreat back down into his chambers of hell... curse his impeccable amount of self-control! If he retreated it was probable he'd be so distracted that he'd trip down the stairs, fall into the lagoon and drown. Though it would be no more than he deserved, it hardly seemed advantageous to himself. But if he stayed this 'torture' would surly rip him mind apart. And if he dared to breech her holy sanctuary he might very well burst into flames.

Grappling with his carnal physical desires and the unfortunate circumstance he lived with, Erik decided the time just was not right for this sort of step, and he would not be lured into what could only turn out to be a heartbreaking trap. Either way his death was imminent.

* * *

As Christine's hand continued it's deviously sinful employment, she wondered exactly what she would do if suddenly her image was no longer reflected and in its stead appeared her angel, striding towards her. If he touched her with ungloved hands, her reaction to his body as he lowered himself onto hers.

She cursed his impeccable amount of self-restraint. She bit her lip and made her chest rise and fall more rapidly while moving the rose in a circular motion over and over again, not quite achieving what _exactly_ what Erik imagined, but then that was no ones fault but his.

_"Erik... take me! Erik!"_

She added a gasping _"please!" _in just for affect and then struck the fatal blow. A thud from the general vicinity of the mirror brought Christine to her senses and take note of the compromising position she had placed herself in. Suddenly unsure if this had been the wisest course to take. The self-imperilment she'd placed herself in all riding on one mans amount of control. She decided it would be best if she were still able to stand during tomorrow nights performance and snuggled deeper into the soft cushions and fell asleep feeling more than moderately proud of herself.

* * *

When she had cried out his _name_, a name he didn't remembered telling her, it felt as if his veins had burst open. The hot blood seared under his flesh trying to push its way out through his pours. She was _begging him _to **_make love_** to _her_!One day he would show her exactly why angels were put on the earth. He rested his burning forehead against the cool glass, hoping Christine didn't hear the 'thud'. The clothes against his skin were dampened with sweat and he was sure even his mask was flushed. As quickly as it had begun, it was over. He saw Christine relax into the sofa, letting the rose drop from her hand and covering herself with the duvet, closed her eyes.

Laboriously Erik uprooted his feet and trudged down through the shadows feeling strangely ill.

**--over--**


End file.
